


Scare Crows, Not Crispus

by Satchelfoot



Category: Gotham Central
Genre: Coffee, Crime Fighting, Cute Ending, Dialogue Heavy, Light-Hearted, Pre-Canon, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satchelfoot/pseuds/Satchelfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just some Major Crimes detectives telling stories about their first weirdo cases on a slow night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scare Crows, Not Crispus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilacsigil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacsigil/gifts).



“All right, all right, you really want to know? I'll humor you.

“I was shadowing Crowe my first month on the job, waiting for my first freak case. He gets the call that some punk in a scarecrow outfit is sneaking up on patients at Gotham General, giving them heart attacks, you know, literally scaring them to death. Sounds just like one of Batman's guys, right? So we go check it out, and maybe I'm a little overexcited. I mean, he's my first MCU perp, and I've been going on about how there's nothing the Bat can do that a good cop can't, and here I am, already getting a chance to prove it at the expense of Dr. Jonathan Crane, no less. I'm thinking about the lecture I got in Gordon's office the day I transferred here, the one about how this job is like tracking down a rabid dog every day, only we have to try to bring them in instead of putting them down. I'm not ready, nobody's ready the first time, but for some reason I think I am.

“So we get to the hospital, go over the floor plan, and decide to hit the tenth floor, where our guy's hiding out, in teams of four—Crowe and I each taking three uniforms with us. I go in the back entrance, Crowe in the front, planning to comb the floor from opposite ends until we flush the freak out. I climb way too many stairs and then have to wait a minute for Crowe to get to the floor on his end. Then it's all by the book, poking our heads into rooms and offices, until one of my guys starts screaming and I turn around and get a big noseful of this funky smell like nutmeg and ammonia—you ever get hit with the fear toxin, Renée?”

“Couple of times, yeah.”

“So you know how it is. First I see the Scarecrow with that stupid bag on his head, making all his creepy rustling noises, and then my mind's gone and I'm seeing all the usual shit parades: my kids dead, my wife never having loved me, Harvey Dent elected mayor, you know. My team is writhing on the ground already, and I'm about ready to join them. But then—man, I don't even know if I can talk about this... I hallucinate myself arresting Fred Rogers.”

“Wait, what? Fred Rogers like _Mister_ Rogers?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“For what?”

“Soliciting a prostitute.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, apparently, one of my worst fears is that I get busted down to vice and have to arrest my childhood heroes in the most degrading manner possible. And all his friends are there, too, the real ones like Mr. Postman but also, you know, the puppets from Pretend-land or whatever.”

“Yeah, that's fucked up, Cris.”

“I know it's fucked up, but it's also completely fucking ridiculous. It's so ridiculous I start laughing, like big, unstoppable guffaws. I can't help it.”

“Hang on. You _laughed_? _You_ laughed? Everything else about this story makes more sense than that. I believe your face would break in two if you ever tried to laugh, man.”

“Hey, you wanna hear the end of it or not?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“OK. So I'm literally helpless with laughter. Crane could probably kill me right now if he tried. But he looks taken aback—don't ask me how I can tell through the mask, it's all body language—taken aback that I am not yet curled up in a terrified fetal position with my fellow police. He decides I must be laughing at him, and I can't say I blamed him: he knows nothing about poor Mr. Rogers getting busted with a hooker in a non-missionary position, after all. So he tells me to stop laughing at him, and I just laugh harder. See, I'm having one of those laughing fits where you get started and suddenly _everything_ is funny. And I look at him, this dorky little guy with a filthy canvas bag on his head, and he _is_ funny-looking. But the more I laugh, of course, the more pissed he gets, until finally the crazy motherfucker gets right up in my face and screams, ' _Stop laughing at me!_ '

“Well, that works. I stop laughing and I'm scared again, but it's a clean, natural, adrenaline-driven fear that cuts through the bad craziness from the toxin. I realize it's my gun that's in my hand, not a pit viper or a live grenade, and Crane is so close I can feel his spittle drying on my face from his indignant hollering, and I clock him once in the face with the gun barrel, and that is more or less that.”

“More or less?”

“Yeah, well, the adrenaline wore off a minute later, right when Crowe and his team showed up. Then the fear toxin took over again and I'm told it took all four of those guys to keep me from clawing out my eyes or anyone else's until they could give me a sedative. I was kind of off in my own horrible little world at the time. Nasty shit.”

“Wow.” Montoya stretches in her chair and starts to rise from her desk. “My first case was pretty intense, too, but I didn't get to punch the guy. It ended up being Bullock who got the collar.”

Allen gets up too.“Who was the guy?”

Montoya grimaces. “Dent, if you can believe it. And he probably thinks of it as our first date now. What a dick. Harvey vs. Harvey, though, that was something to see.”

She shrugs it off, but Allen can still see her shiver. “Yeah, tell me about that one later. Let's not talk about Two-Face this soon after—you know.”

“Agreed. C'mon, Cris, let's make sure there's some coffee left for second shift, or Driver will never stop bitching at us.”

“Like I give a shit what Driver says.” But he's already scooping Taster's Choice into the coffee maker anyway. “Don't know why anyone would complain about not having enough of this shit to drink.”

“That shit, Detective Allen, does more to run this department than Captain Sawyer or anyone else ever could,” says Detective Crowe, walking into the squad room with Sergeant Davies.

“Hey, Crowe.” Montoya starts to put her coat on. “Glad you showed up early. Shift's been pretty slow today. Cris was just telling me about his first case.”

“Ah, yes, the Scarecrow business. That was entertaining.” Crowe tamps tobacco down in his pipe.

“Not as entertaining as _your_ first case here, Nelson,” says Davies, throwing his coat on his desk.

“Why, what happened on Crowe's first case?” Even with Daria waiting for her at home, Montoya is sitting down again at the prospect of another good story.

Crowe frowns with his pipe halfway to his mouth. “Jack—”

“Oh, he just got a big kiss from Harley Quinn, that's all.”

Allen barks out a laugh, making everyone in the room eye him suspiciously. “What?”

“So that's what it sounds like,” Montoya says. “Your laugh needs some work, Cris. Tell me more, Sarge.”

Davies grins up at Crowe, who has now clamped his mouth firmly around his pipe. “You want to tell it, or should I?”

“Fuck you, Detective Sergeant Davies,” Crowe mumbles around the pipe.

“And you, Detective Crowe.” Davies leans back in his chair. “You guys have a few minutes to listen to this? OK, so the two of us had the Joker's place staked out—this was the early days, when he was still at Axis Chemical. And Crowe, he decides our best approach is through the old air ducts...”


End file.
